


Jail Time

by Anonymous



Category: The Rock (1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masochism, Military, Minor Character Death, Missions Gone Wrong, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, The Author Regrets Everything, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A set of loosely-connected scenes (pre-, during, and post-canon) following the bad guys of The Rock as everything goes to plan and they live happily ever after....Alright, not exactly.Read this if: you enjoy headcanons aplenty, emotional attachment to ruthless killers, fix-it fic with bonus romance, a callous disregard for the seriousness of the source material, a LOT of swearing, complete ruination of character integrity, and no trace whatsoever of the movie's actual protagonists.Do not read this if: you wish to maintain your sanity, or be able to watch said source material in the same way ever again.
Relationships: Barbara Hummel/Frank Hummel, Tom Baxter/Anderson, Tom Baxter/Frank Hummel
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Proposition

If he had to talk about how he and Barb fell in love, it would be that encounter soon after they met; a not-quite-date, with his crewmates and her friends and the two of them drawing closer to each other all evening as if pulled by an unseen cord.

He walks her home, as a gentleman, and turns to her and is straightforward with it - he always is, because it saves a lot of hassle and heartbreak and he never wants to waste a lady’s time. He tells her that he likes her, and that there could be a future for them together.

“If you’re feeling the same way,” he concludes, “I’ll step up. But if not… just tell me, and I won’t bother you again.”

She laughs breezily, and takes that step forward herself.

\--

He would never talk about how he and Tom fell in love. He’s known for a long time that there are some women who catch his eye, and some men as well. With Barb as a co-conspirator it’s easy to hide the latter; even easier when they can joke about it together, and when the men concerned are indifferent, uninterested.

Tom is interested. He figures that out early on, even before he meets his future wife. They graduate from colleagues to acquaintances to friends in a mutual fashion - and he gets promoted above, and it only brings them closer.

“Jesus,” their CO says, once they’ve left his makeshift office, “I don’t mind admitting it, Bob - Hummel scares the shit out of me.”

“Uh-huh,” his aide peeks through a gap at their departure. “And now he’s got Baxter following him around like a lost puppy.”

“Puppy?” he scoffs, and clicks his lighter. “The man’s a goddamn attack dog.”

“D’you think he knows that, sir?”

“Even if he does - do you think he cares?”

\--

“I’ll never find the girl of my dreams,” he complains, one night when they’re drinking together. The emphasis on “girl”, because he doesn’t care if it gives the wrong - the right - impression. Worn down by the raucous locker-room talk and the constant guarding of himself: not as proficient at it, back then. Fed-up but unable to lash out.

“The guy of your dreams, then”, Frank said with a one-shoulder shrug, like it was a non-issue. And like a fool Tom lost his composure, and stammered something about  _ so you wouldn’t mind if I’m…? _

“I don’t give a fuck about your love life,” with a flash of those iron-hard eyes, “so long as you put your fuckin’ pants back on when it’s time to get to work.”

And he slapped him on the back, and let that touch linger just too long. (Most days, it still feels like he never let go.)

\--

Francis comes in and kicks the door shut. Tom jumps and tries to pull his hand away, button his pants, sit up, cover up and construct an excuse all at the same time and only succeeds in nearly falling off his bunk.

“Having some quality time?” Francis asks, without judgement. “Hell, it’s ok. You can carry on, I don’t care.”

And it should be ok. They’re all guys together here, all brothers in arms, all with needs: sometimes you just have to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear for them, knowing they’d do the same for you. What could be simpler?

Not so simple, for him, is working out how a man’s supposed to react when he’s indeed about to have some  _ quality time _ but the person he was planning to think about walks in. His mental machinery has seized up with a clash like a truck put in the wrong gear and there’s not much he can do but sit there and look stupid.

“It’s - it’s fine,” he mutters eventually.

“Put you off your game, huh? Sorry.” He doesn’t offer to leave, since there’s nowhere for him to go. “I’m just gonna read, I won’t bother you. Pretend I’m not here if you want.”

“No!” Tom says. Too fast and too desperate. If he thought he looked stupid before, now it’s a hundred times worse. He closes his eyes, mortified.

“What, you want me to be here?” It sounds like he’s joking. The bed dips as he sits down on it. “Is this better?”

He could just be pushing the joke too far, but that’s unlike him: he doesn’t tease much, and he never steers into outright mockery (the kind which makes Tom feel a deep-rooted sting of betrayal when forced to laugh along). Tom doesn’t dare to open his eyes. The grip on his arm is firm but not unwelcome.

“I can help you out,” Francis says, right by his ear, and he almost loses it - almost grabs him to either kiss him or shove him away, whichever would happen first. “How about it?”

His voice won’t work, as usual. “Sure,” he manages to say, little more than a breath.

While his courage lasts, he makes short work of his belt - not that he managed to fasten it fully before anyway. Francis leans in, resting against him from shoulder to hip in a halfway-sitting posture, and his fingers brush against Tom’s waistband, but there’s no way he’s ready for that yet. It was what he was dreaming about, certainly; but to do it for real might actually kill him. He takes the hand away and Francis doesn’t insist, just places it onto his leg instead.

“Relax, take your time,” he says. Tom doesn’t have the resources to tell him that, under the circumstances, that’s all but impossible.

\--

They’re pinned down by fire and it looks like there’s no way out: alone, hiding behind ruined walls and running low on everything. And his instincts are telling him that this is it, so he lets those same instincts tell him other things as well.

“Sir,” he asks, “since we’re gonna die here… may I do something extremely reckless?”

Francis gives permission - and shows no surprise when Tom kisses him. More than that: he responds in kind and holds them together when Tom tries to make a shame-filled retreat, and murmurs;

“I think I hear a chopper.”

“Fuck,” is all Tom can say to that.

They survive, of course they do, and the adrenaline of battle is nothing compared to the thrill of their moments alone. Francis is always there, a constant of affection which soothes his nerves. They’re impeccably careful (although Barbara must suspect; tells him to look after her husband whenever they’re deployed with a wink which makes him blush). It leaves him tense and frustrated sometimes, wishing they could have more. But they survive.

\--

“He gets so worried,” Barbara says, while her husband is in the house fetching her coat, and gives a little shake of the head.

“He cares about you,” Tom tells her what she must already know. “He doesn’t want you to be cold.” She has her heart problem, and it’ll no doubt kill her one day, and Tom used to wonder how she was ok with that until he realised that he was equally as content to be KIA.

“You love that man, don’t you?” she says.

That stuns him so utterly that he can’t respond. He’ll stammer if he does, tripping over words. There’s the Bay City Rollers playing from some house nearby, though he can’t recall which song - it seems like something that should have stuck in his memory, but it hasn’t.

She smiles towards him, gentle and harmless. “Even if I didn’t know already, I can see it in your face.”

He must look ashen, and she reaches out and her small stout hand touches his, and she says “You can make your move if you feel like it. I don’t mind at all.”

If he was stunned before, now he’s downright staggered.

“I - I th-” he finds his voice, somehow, “I think that - that h-he might mind….”

“You never find out unless you ask,” she declares. “He’s always played for both teams, you know.”

He knows - of course he does - but has never acknowledged it, because if he does then he’ll have to admit that it’s his own damn cowardice preventing him from making that move. He just nods, feeling the bond between them fortified by her. The late-summer air is warmer than ever.

\--

He gets the call - and he must be first to hear, because there’s a raw edge to it that will disappear with repetition and rehearsal.

“She’s gone. They tried, but… she never made it off the table.”

“I’m coming.”

That’s the whole conversation: even shorter than normal, without  _ over _ or  _ out _ . He grabs his keys.

Francis is on the phone when he arrives at the hospital, leaning with one foot propped on a low windowsill: focused, organising. Working his way through the plan they hoped they wouldn’t have to use. To the casual observer he might not look like a man mourning his wife, but Tom sees it differently. It’s in his stance, in his face; his voice doesn’t waver but his eyes are bright with tears. This is a loss that he can’t recoup. There are no reinforcements. He hangs up and turns around - and for a moment he looks adrift, small and pale and fragile, and it’s frightening. Tom strides forward and hugs him briefly - all they can afford - and keeps a hand on his arm until they leave for home.

“It’s not home without her,” Francis says, distantly, once they’re through the door. “It won’t ever be.”

“I know.” Tom pulls him in and holds him tight this time, and he leans there with his face in Tom’s shoulder and weeps, silently. Both of them do. There’s nothing else that can be done.

He moves in, for a while - into the guest room - and some nights, he has company. It’s hard for her husband to sleep alone now, after so many years, when her presence saturates the room and her side of the bed is empty and cold.

One of those nights, Francis tells him that Barbara made him promise to marry him if she went first, and it renders him blushing and tongue-tied as usual. But he doesn’t say no. Barb always had the best ideas.


	2. Orca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: someone gets beaten with a belt (mutually consensual and for fun)

“This is always the worst part.”

All of them agree - it’s an early stage of the mission and they’re sequestered deep in their stronghold, while any action that might be happening is far away outside. At some point, it’s likely that a tactical squad will burst in to eliminate the terrorists and rescue the hostage. That’s marginally more exciting than sitting here waiting around, but much less appealing than the prospect of picking themselves off the floor and going for drinks afterwards. Which is something they can all agree on.

Tom is eyeing the door. “Did I hear something?”

“I don’t know,” Francis responds. “Did you?”

He shifts his weapon. “I hope they don’t aim the way they did last time. Paintballs hurt.”

“Don’t worry,” their hostage says. “You can always use me as a meat shield.”

“You can keep your mouth shut or else,” Baxter snaps at him, and Francis gets a couple of things from that, because after decades of this he can read Tom like a book. One: Tom doesn’t like Anderson, for some reason. Two: Anderson doesn’t give a fuck.

It’s just an exercise; he isn’t in danger. Francis has seen him on real-life ops and he’s equally cool, watchful and sharp and in control. He sits, utterly relaxed against his bonds - and eyeing them like he can’t wait to see what they’ll try next.

Francis just moves behind him, so he can’t see without turning: a move that would unnerve a lot of men, albeit not the ones in this room.

“Or else what?” Anderson asks Tom. “What are you gonna do?”

“Nothing,” Tom growls. He really is irritated. “I’m not gonna do anything to you. Forget it.”

“Just sayin’.” He shrugs a little. “I can’t stop you.”

The glare that Tom gives him could turn milk into jet fuel, and that’s highly unusual.

“You ok?” Francis gets a look that’s a lot more favourable. He’d expect nothing less. “What’s eating you?”

“Ah, it’s nothing.” Still with annoyance, directed at their temporary hostage.

“You got something to say, Tom,” Francis hardens his tone, “you might as well say it.”

“It’s just I heard that this guy - you can’t hurt him. Because he likes it… a little too much. If you get my drift.”

“Uh-huh,” Francis nods. “Any other hot gossip you’d like to tell me about?”

“It’s just what I heard, Frank.”

“And it’s entirely up to you if you believe it,” he counters. Tom is usually above the rumour mill; thinks things through on his own and keeps to himself. Something seems to have worked beneath his armour.

“That’s good of you,” Anderson says over his shoulder, “to defend my reputation.” He’s being faintly facetious, but Francis can share the joke in the interests of keeping it light.

“Well, you’re a professional.”

“As are you. How’d you get promoted, anyway? You car-bomb the previous guy?”

There’s a _crack_ that surprises Francis more than the insult - Baxter’s hand on Anderson’s face.

“Woah, Tom!” he exclaims. “Cool down, he’s just talking trash.”

“Sorry,” Tom says, unhappy, and wanders away - out of range, in case he’s provoked again.

Francis laughs briefly. “Got under your skin, huh?” He gets up to inspect.

Anderson doesn’t seem perturbed. There’s a red mark on his cheek and his lip is split - Tom hits hard and clearly didn’t pull it.

“It’s ok,” he says, generously, as if offered an apology. “I don’t mind at all.”

He licks across the wound, probing it with his tongue. A minute shudder goes down his spine - visible because he wants them to see it - and whatever this might be, Francis has no desire to get involved.

\--

They’re at the end of the row of rooms, and the wall they share is paper-thin, so he can hear them arguing. It hasn’t stopped. Tom has already said “back off”; a warning definitely worth heeding. Baxter might seem like a gentle giant among the troops, but he’s an express train - once he picks up speed, it’s best to stay off the tracks.

Anderson is not staying off the tracks. They’re talking, then they’re bitching, then they’re fighting, and Francis is trying valiantly to read the novel set by Barbara’s book club but he can’t avoid it. Anderson’s back hits the wall - right near his headboard - with an “unhf” that sounds distinctly pleased. Tom mutters something inaudible. “Nah,” Anderson responds, “you just gotta fuck me _up_.”

There’s a shift and a rustle, and then a quiet “Wow….”, and Francis sighs. He knows exactly what prompted it - although so far, the two of them have never got to that point. He’s not sure he’d agree to it, even if Baxter somehow found the courage to ask. Forget the chain of command: it’s just not the way he wants to die.

Anderson apparently has a death wish. “What’s the matter? Too long as a Marine, you forget how to use it? Is that what -” there’s a slam and he gasps like he’s been punched in the gut. “ _Fuck_ . I guess you _do_ still know how to use it….”

Francis has to wince, because that must have hurt like a bitch and now he’s sure that Tom’s hearsay was true and even more sure that he wants nothing to do with it. He bangs on the wall with his fist.

“Keep it down! I’m trying to read here.”

“Give me five minutes, Frank…” Tom protests, and Anderson says “Five minutes?!” and laughs like a hyena.

(It takes a lot longer than five minutes. Francis doesn’t get much reading done.)

\--

“Frank,” Tom catches him by the arm, looming over (a stance which although he’s never mentioned it, makes it seem like they’re the only two people in the universe). “When - when were you going to tell me that _he outranks me_?”

“I thought you knew.” It wasn’t mentioned during the exercise, which was part of the point - or afterwards - but he’d really assumed it was common knowledge.

“I didn’t,” Tom hisses. “I didn’t know. He’s... right between me and you.”

“Wouldn’t that be the day?” comes a voice from somewhere behind his elbow.

Baxter visibly flinches; Francis nudges him aside just in case. Anderson - in dress uniform, betraying his status - regards the two of them as if nothing’s amiss, and stalks away to speak to someone else. The bruises he gained are hidden under his clothes but, gratifyingly, he’s walking more like he’s 95 than 35 and trying to pass it off as a pulled muscle.

“Son of a bitch turned off my alarm for me,” Tom mutters, “nearly made me late.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to wake you up.”

“That’s what it’s _for_ , Frank.”

He can’t help but chuckle. “Next time, you can stay in my room. Keep you out of trouble.”

“He’s the one making trouble.”

“He’s got you rattled, huh? Just try and keep it civil.”

Tom sighs quietly, helplessly, though he’s anything but. “You’re telling me to be nice to him?”

“Yeah. Because if you do, he’ll back off. If you’re an asshole… he’s gonna come back for more.”

\--

He does come back for more, albeit only because they’re sharing a room. They coincide in the corridor and there’s something in the air that he thought would be gone without Tom around.

“He’s not in, you’ve got the place to yourself.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” He does - it’s almost impossible for them not to keep track of each other, as if they’re psychic - but he isn’t going to say. Anderson sizes him up, not being subtle at all.

“What, you’re trying it on with me as well?”

“I heard Force RECON are easy, sir.” Which would annoy Baxter, but he’s not Baxter, so the hit doesn’t land.

“You’re not gonna provoke me into smacking you around, Commander.”

Anderson moves in front of him, chest to chest, not quite touching. “Then what _do_ I have to do?” There’s a challenge in his eyes, an ultimatum: up the stakes, or fold and leave. And Tom won’t be back for a while.

Francis checks the hallway for witnesses, shoves him lightly into the room, and locks the door behind them.

“Just tell me what you’re after.”

“Ok.” This is a lot more civil than last night - so far. “What I want…” he comes closer again, “is for you to hurt me. I don’t care how. Just nothing that’ll show - since we’re here on business - and nothing that’ll put me in the ER. Clear, sir?”

“Sure.” He’s curious more than anything else; Anderson isn’t really his type, and he’s hardly desperate for action. But he has to do it. He has to know. “What if you tell me to stop?”

“Then you stop. It’s not one of those no-means-yes things,” in a tone which suggests that’s far too elaborate for his needs. “Bring it on.”

Francis takes a moment to consider - and to think about Tom, and how that turned out - before wandering away to his luggage and pulling out a leather belt. He draws it through his hands, feeling the weight, and looks back. Anderson’s eyes have lit up. His tongue slides across his injured lip.

“You sick fuck,” Francis says, and flicks the belt at him with a laugh.

“Hey, you’re here too.” He grins and takes off his shirt, throwing it to one side. “Come on.”

Francis approaches him, seeing the bruises that Tom left behind. “You want this? You’re going to beg me for it?”

“No,” Anderson says flatly. “Fuck off with the power play. Either you’re gonna do it - or you’re not, in which case you can quit wasting my fucking time.”

“Understood. Don’t worry.”

“Good.” He braces his knees against the bed and puts his hands on his head, keeping them out of the way. His back, lean and toned, is a perfect target.

Francis doesn’t pull his punches any more than Tom does. The belt makes a _crack_ like a shot. Anderson says “ _Christ_ ” in approval, so he does it again. Red marks form up in tiger-stripes.

When he runs out of space - below the neck, above the kidneys - and hits the same spot twice, Anderson gasps and tilts his head back and his hands come down of their own accord.

“You ok?”

“Keep going,” low and rough, a heat-filled growl. One hand slips into his pants.

Francis smacks him harder and he groans aloud. It doesn’t take long after that.

The air is close. Francis takes some time to catch his breath: quite the workout, as it turned out, which might be a sign of his age. He lays the belt back down among his belongings, and crosses over to place a hand on the trembling column of Anderson’s spine, not sure whether he means to soothe or not.

“Good enough?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Anderson says, the same way he did when Tom went balls-deep in one thrust. “Yeah, good enough.” He lets himself be turned around and held in close for a while, goes with it easy like he’s half-asleep. “Ok,” he peels away, somewhat reluctantly, and pulls his shirt back on with a sigh. “I should go. In case Baxter makes an appearance.”

“He’d just be glad you’re leaving him alone.”

“Who says I’m doing that?” Anderson gives him a smirk.

“You insatiable whore,” Francis says, and kicks him out.


	3. Incarcerated

It’s a hell of a thing they’re doing. Tom is aware of that. And he wishes he could tell Anderson that; tell him about everything else they’ve tried, about the years of wasted and frustrated effort, about Barbara, about the way Francis took him for a walk that bright spring morning and made sure nobody was around and said “I’ve got a plan - but you’re not gonna like it”.

Instead, he stares down his sights at the SEAL team leader and holds his fire. His hands and throat are dry.

“What the hell is wrong with you, man?!” Francis demands, making a fair point.

Someone has to give in first. It’s an effort to steady his breath, to keep his aim true. _I fucked you,_ he thinks, sudden like a chill on his spine. He recalls it unbidden; hard muscle hot against him, bruises and bites. _I fucked you and you laughed._ He doesn’t lower his weapon, though he wants to. _And this is how it ends._

“Let’s waste these fuckers,” spits Captain Frye off to one side. Brimming with bloodlust.

“ _Captain_ ,” the General warns, without looking. Frye has the common sense to stay still. Keeping the slaughter at bay

“We’re fucked,” one of the SEALs hisses: they know when they’re doomed, and this has all the shades of doom about it. “We’re dead....”

“Commander, you have a choice. Surrender now and you will not be harmed. We don’t want to kill you.” He leaves it unspoken that they will, if they have to. Like fish in a barrel.

Anderson can’t bring himself to give the order, and he can’t look Francis in the eye. But he makes safe his weapon and lays it on the floor - next to the grate, above Shepard and Dillinger and the others still below in the tunnel - and unheard by their enemy, whispers “ _go_!”. 

To Shepard’s credit, he doesn’t hesitate before they slip away. The Marines descend like wolves.

\--

“Sir, I’m strongly recommending that you reconsider.”

Francis rubs his forehead. It looks like the only thing he’s reconsidering is having their team leader up here, separated from the others locked in the cells. They secure him, chaining him to the grid on the wall. Tom runs a hand across the back of his neck and he jerks away and gives a look that’s half defiance and half agony: something that they have in common.

“Commander,” Francis says, “I’m gonna ask you to be quiet.”

“I can’t, sir. There are civilian lives at stake....”

“Commander, I am _ordering_ you to be quiet.”

“They’re prepping the thermite plasma,” he says softly.

“It’s not ready,” Francis asserts. “They know that.”

“They’re trying anyway.” He meets the General’s eyes, laying bare his honesty. “Hoping to string you along, for however long it takes to get it done. And if they manage it….”

“They wipe out eighty-one civilians - and a whole team of their best men - with an untested incendiary weapon dropped on a historic building.”

“Trading us off against the whole of San Francisco.” Anderson shrugs. “That’s what it comes down to. Doesn’t it?”

“It’s a fucking numbers game,” Tom mutters, one hand propped on his chin. “And we’re the collateral.”

“There’s still time, General. You can call the whole thing off. Hell, you could even escape before -.”

Francis growls. “Tom, shut him up.”

Major Baxter gets out of his seat and comes over. Anderson tries to bite his hand and nearly succeeds.

“Don’t worry,” Tom says, “it’s not duct tape. It just looks like it.”

Francis has crossed to the window, and is staring out at the bay. “I told them not to go public. Makes it easier on us, if they can’t paint us as terrorists. But….”

“Maybe we go public first,” Tom finishes his thought. “Tell everyone what’s going on.”

Francis folds his arms. “The city’s gonna riot. I don’t want any more casualties.”

“Then we use it as a threat. I think there’s a reporter, in amongst the hostages. Never mind the warheads - give ‘em journalists to worry about.”

“The closer to the deadline, the worse the consequences. It’s not eighty people against thousands - it’s _all_ of them, against a hundred million dollars from a military budget of tens of billions.” He considers. “That’s a different kind of numbers game.”

“It’s an option,” Tom concludes.

That’s when a call comes through from Captain Hendrix, because Frye is up to… something. He’s not specific. It involves the hostages.

By the time they arrive, Frye has done a vanishing act. Hendrix isn’t forthcoming with information - he’s loyal and efficient, and he’s also terrified of Francis and unable to hide it, which sometimes limits his usefulness. They look through the bars; the SEALs stare back, pissed-off but unharmed, despite Frye’s best efforts.

“The fuck is this?” Francis growls, in disbelief. He moves along the row and talks to them, quietly, confidentially. Tom can tell that he’s apologising.

Frye is a loose cannon, and it’s getting worse. “Major Baxter, sir,” says Sergeant Crisp, over the radio - hushed, as if he’s trying to avoid being overheard. “He’s up here. With - with the team leader.”

They end up throwing Frye in a cell as well. He curses and threatens, but his cries ring out in the empty jail as ignored as those of a thousand inmates through the years. Darrow shortly follows him. The journalist is summoned, trembling fiercely in front of them. The specialists disarm a couple of the rockets, but they’re running out of time, and the Marines are hunting them.

With three minutes to go, the Pentagon pays up.


	4. Convergence

The term  _ water under the bridge _ doesn’t do it justice: the bridge has been smashed to matchwood and swept downstream by a raging torrent, taking them with it. He’s glad that Barb wasn’t alive to witness that. He’s sad that she isn’t alive now. She would have come with them, he’s certain. She would have bullied them into their renaissance; found a place for them; been waiting to tell them to take their shoes off the minute they got into the hallway exhausted from travel and carrying just about everything they own.

As it is, there’s only the two of them. He puts the bags down - certain he’s strained a few muscles - and looks around.

“Well,” he says, “here we are.”

It sounds stupid to his own ears, in the empty air of the house. Francis is prowling, assessing the space. He probably won’t sit down and relax today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he’ll have to be persuaded.

“Remember what you said?”

“I said a lot of things, Frank.” It’s a little too cryptic a statement for his tired thought process; he’s not about to pretend he understands.

“You said you wanted somewhere nobody’s shooting at us, where we can drink the tap water, and you can get a decent club sandwich.”

“I did….” He remembers now. Francis raises an eyebrow at him. “Well, I’ve yet to receive intel about the sandwich situation.”

Francis laughs out loud - and it’s the first time he’s heard that since Barbara went.

\--

_ One year later _

\--

The Admiral strokes his moustache, and looks gravely at his own reflection in the surface of the desk. He’s been silent while his compatriot explains, but now he clears his throat and says:

“We won’t have his co-operation. Not after Alcatraz.”

“So we make it clear that that’s in the past, and that we’re not coming after him….”

“He knows we can’t touch him, Al. He promised us we would never hear from him again - so what makes you think he’ll talk to us now?”

“It’s a chance,” General Kramer says evenly. “I don’t like it either - not after what happened - but it’s a chance. We’d be foolish not to take it.” The call connects, finally. “Frank. This is Al Kramer….”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Francis says instantly, making Kramer jump a little. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

“Look, Frank, I know it’s unusual…” he pauses and considers where to go next, “but we think you may be able to he-.”

“And why the  _ fuck _ would I help you, Al?”

“Just… we’re just looking at our options….”

“If I’m one of your options then you’ve got yourself into a fucking hole, haven’t you?”

Kramer rubs his forehead. “Frank, this isn’t productive….”

“If I come home, Al, you’ll have me executed on sight. So forgive me if I’m not being as hospitable as you’d like.”

“Alright, alright.” Kramer takes his glasses off, peers through them, replaces them. Francis waits him out. “We have intelligence that former Army Ranger Captains Frye and Darrow are operating as contractors in the territory….”

“I know they are. That’s not my problem either.”

“...but we also had operatives from the Navy in there - on unrelated business. They got split up by some seriously bad weather and one of them is still MIA; the last location data we have suggests that Frye and Darrow might have found him.”

“And you want me to go look?” He leans forward, plants his hands on the table - Tom sees the signs of an approaching tirade. “I paid off those fuckers after Alcatraz and hoped I’d never see them again, and now you’re asking me to go knock on their door and tell ‘em _hey, my buddies at the Pentagon think you’ve got some guy in your basement_. They’re in a walled-off compound, Al, with at least fifty men and the finest firepower one million American dollars can buy - and let me tell you, the exchange rate down here is pretty fucking good. They’re gunning for whoever writes their paychecks and hopping back and forth over the border like it’s a fucking picket fence, getting waved right through the checkpoints. And you want me to haul my ass out there like I’m trying for a fucking playdate….”

“Frank, please,” Kramer says feebly. Tom pulls at Francis’s wrist to hold his hand - partly for support, but mostly because the fire in that voice is warming his heart and he wants to express it. “Like I say, we’re exploring our options….”

“Well, what are your other options?”

“As you’re probably aware, the situation is too sensitive to allow an active presence. A covert mission could retrieve him, perhaps, but I’ll be honest with you - intelligence is thin on the ground, the inclement weather doesn’t help, and we may be running out of time. It could be throwing good money after bad. So -.”

“I’ll go,” Francis says - provoking an “oh” of surprise from the Admiral. “But not for you. Just for the sake of the poor bastard who might be trapped in there. And if you’re lying to me… well, you’ll save yourself a firing squad.”

“Do you think he  _ is  _ lying to us?” Tom asks, a moment after he hangs up.

“No.” Francis reaches out idly and adds his other hand over Tom’s. “I think he’s desperate.”

“It means they know where we are.”

“If they wanted us dead, they’d have done it already. Or this might be their way of doing it.” He shrugs. “If you want out... now’s the time, Tom.”

“I’m not leaving you.” He means it; has meant it every time he’s said it, for almost thirty years. They go together, or not at all.

\--

Like a rat in a sewer, Frye keeps scampering up back to the surface. He and Darrow and their men - the ones mentally stacking up money even in the chopper, crowing about what they’d do with it - are always roaming around here, always out cruising for business.

Francis doesn’t ask why; doesn’t ask what really happened to that million dollars. He resists the urge to tell Frye to take a long walk off a short pier: knowing their luck, the bastard would be tossed right back to shore again by a freak tsunami. These storms have already come out of nowhere - once every seventy-seven years, according to the locals. Some ancient monster stirring under the sea. He’s not sure he believes  _ that _ , but he knows he doesn’t want to be caught in howling gales and driving rain, heralded right now by a few warning spots; not when they have a perfectly good house inland to hide in.

“A little bird tells me that you’ve got a special guest.”

None of the mercenaries ask who his little bird might be: it doesn’t seem to be privileged information. They’re not concerned with security. They might have been flaunting it, even. The further away they are, the better he’ll feel.

“We have indeed,” Frye says, and motions to his cronies, and there’s a brief consultation before they return, dragging a body that they toss to the hard-packed earth. “But we’re done with him. Consider it a gift, General.”

Francis frowns. He doesn’t correct Frye’s use of his former title; half the people around here call him that, recognising his achievements if not the circumstances that brought him here. A gun and a uniform go a long way - not so different from back home, really.

(They rarely wear the latter any more, he and Tom, and they’ve dropped each other’s ranks, and Tom is almost out of the habit of calling him  _ sir _ . Almost. He slips sometimes when they argue.)

“You better not be causing trouble for me.” He indicates the figure on the floor.

“Found him on the beach,” Frye adds, matching what Kramer told them. “Guess he got blown off course by the storms. And you know, General - my boys are like killer whales, a little bit.”

“Killer whales?” Tom asks wearily, regretting the day they met this cretin.

“Yeah.” He pauses with relish. “Sometimes... we just wanna have a seal to play with.”


	5. Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of sexual assault and non-consensual drug use (no graphic description).

“You’ve seen what killer whales do to seals, Frank.”

Francis takes his eyes off the doctor for a second. “Yeah, I saw it on TV.”

“It’s not pretty,” Tom reminds him. “They use them like a… volleyball or something.”

“I know.” He plants his hand on his hip. “Should have never hired those bastards.”

“We didn’t have a choice,” because it was a call that they made together, and he isn’t about to let Francis take all the blame. “They’ll get themselves killed before too long, pulling shit like this.” He leaves out the unfortunate fact that that would be a good thing.

“Alright,” the doctor says, interrupting them. “No broken bones, just cuts and bruises; nothing serious that I can see. His vitals are fine. He needs fluids, food, rest. But he’ll be ok.”

“He’s dozy as all hell,” Tom observes. “Is that a concussion?”

“It seems not - I can’t find any signs of head injury. If you ask me, he has been drugged. Make sure you watch him. Call me if he doesn’t recover.” They always pay him well enough not to ask questions, and he always finds them to be civil and understanding clients. These are valuable things.

By sundown the wind has turned ferocious and rain rattles down in blown-about bursts. Tom stays with their guest; or patient; or prisoner; whichever it might be. They’ve cleaned him up and transferred him to the bedroom ( _ their _ bedroom, still such a novel thing) without a problem - whatever’s keeping him docile must be potent. He barely opens his eyes. His hand reaches out and he mutters  _ stay, don’t leave me here, don’t go _ . It’s unclear what he might suppose is happening, but he grips Tom’s sleeve with determination. Tom lifts him into his arms, and strokes his hair, and he drifts back to sleep without another word.

\--

The storm has mostly spent itself by morning - a few rays of sunshine poke through receding clouds, and water drips gently from the eaves. Tom sits across from the bed; Francis leans in the doorway. They’re both ready for trouble, without discussing it. He might be hurt, but if he’s awake, he’s dangerous. They watch him start to stir.

“How are you feeling, Commander?”

“Hope that’s not who I think it is,” a groan, directed at the pillow. His voice is hoarse and cracked.

“Nice to see you, too,” Tom says, and he groans again. ”You want a drink?”

That gets his interest. He turns over, shielding his eyes with his arm, and sits up - quite an effort, by the looks of things. Tom gives him water and he swallows it gratefully.

“We could have spiked that with anything.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t.”

“How do you know?”

“It wasn’t duct tape.” He meets Tom’s eyes for a long moment, then Francis’s, and takes another draught. “Eighty-one civilians, none of them harmed. The raid on the weapons depot, using tranqs. You ambushed us and you could have just killed us all, but you didn’t. You were after the chemist and the convict, but you didn’t kill them either. And... specialised body tape, sticks to itself but not to skin. Figured that out when Shep took it off. You really weren’t out to hurt anyone. I don’t think you’d ever have fired those rockets.”

“We were hoping not to,” Francis says neutrally. “You think I’d have wiped out San Francisco over a few million dollars? I might be crazy - at least by Kramer’s standards - but I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Somebody obviously didn’t want to take that chance.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were insulting me. Do I have to give you back to Frye?”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“No.” Francis’s lip curls. “I went to ask some questions, that’s all. He handed you over. Said they were finished with you.”

“That’s awful nice of him.” He stretches, winces, and sighs. “Fuck. I need a shower.”

\--

“Good god,” Tom says, observing him as he dresses. Standing upright, clean and dry, in the daylight, the signs of Frye’s hospitality are much more obvious. “What did they do to you?”

“You really wanna know?” Anderson turns away to find the rest of his clothes -  _ their  _ clothes, since he’s being obliged to borrow. Tom makes a noncommittal noise and tries not to stare too much.

“The doctor says you’ll be fine. They didn’t break any bones.”

“Kinda feels like they did.” He rolls his shoulders. “I would’ve loved it, if it was on my terms.”

“That bad, huh?” Tom can’t help but smile.

“Yeah. Gave me some ideas, though.” He tugs down the sleeves of his sweatshirt, swipes back his hair, and looks almost normal again - including the way he’s standing, just too close for comfort.

“Forget it,” Tom says, folding his arms into a barrier between them. “You’re sure as hell putting a lot of trust in us.”

“You took me to a _ doctor _ . You’ve got first aid and painkillers on standby,” he points at the dresser, “and I’m not fucking chained to anything. By my standards, those are some pretty good fucking signs.”

“You think so?”

“Frye and his asshole brigade had me for  _ days _ . I drank water  _ once _ . I don’t think I ate at all, and when I tried to fight them, they stuck me with something that sent me into the fucking stratosphere. And not in a good way. I’d wake up in the dark, in the cold, pins and needles all over and feeling like my brain fell out of my fucking skull - and wait for them to come back and start the same shit over again. And then this time... it’s just you, holding my fucking hand.”

Tom nods, absorbing this. “So… I guess you must be hungry?”

\--

_ On the shore in the pitch-black night, he’s finished hacking up seawater and is about to haul himself into cover when there’s the crunch of boots in sand and a bright light in his face. _

_ “Hey, over here.” There are several of them: he’s surrounded. “Bit dark for sunbathing.” _

_ They laugh, and about four of them seize him at once, and he takes that as a bad sign. _

_ “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Frye exclaims happily over the sounds of the struggle. Even half-drowned and exhausted, he fights tooth and nail as they strip him of his gear - breaks a couple of noses, maybe some ribs, and at least one jaw - and has to be pinned down with a man to each limb. “We were gettin’ kinda bored out here, but this - this could be fun!” _

_ “Let’s make sure nobody crashes the party,” Darrow says, and crushes the GPS tracker under one enormous boot. _

_ They bind his hands and feet and smack him around - the wetsuit takes most of the scrapes against the floor - but he can’t do too much in retaliation and they eventually lose interest, like cats when the toy mouse doesn’t squeak. They toss him into a side room, and the minute the door closes he’s working on trying to escape. And then Frye appears, holding something concealed in his hand, looking like that one cat who doesn’t really care if the mouse squeaks or not. _

_ “Hey there,” he says softly. “Hey, beautiful.” _

_ The thing in his hand turns out to be a needle. _

_It feels a little like diving under ice: breathing slow and deep in water heavy with cold, looking up to the surface glow, listening to creaks and cracks and other sounds - people walking, boat engines muttering - which don’t seem entirely real, lying beyond a glassy veil where time passes at a different rate. He knows he’ll have to just ride it out, however long that might take, but in the meantime Frye is slicing his wetsuit off him, and that’s a_ very _bad sign._

\--

“Jesus Christ,” Tom says, making a face as if his coffee has turned into cat piss. Francis has his hands on the edge of the sideboard and his knuckles are white: he’d probably much rather be gripping Frye’s neck.

“I was checked out for most of it.” Anderson shrugs and carries on eating, having ruined the appetite of both his hosts. “It didn’t even hurt. He’s got a really tiny dick,” which makes Tom snort, despite himself. “I just hope that fucking needle was clean.”

“And you hope  _ he  _ was clean. We didn’t check  _ that  _ at the doctor.”

“There’s a lot worse that they could’ve done.”

“Like what?” Tom asks, incredulous.

“Well, they beat the shit out of me. And they’re running wild out there: apparently they burned someone alive. Stuck a fucking tyre on him and covered him in fuel, and then….” He strikes an imaginary match. “ _ That’s _ worse.”

Francis sighs; more of a growl. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he says through a mouthful. “Between having the shit beat out of me, I kinda missed the context.”

“Now I see why you feel safe with us,” Tom mutters.

“You won’t try anything like that.” It’s not a question, emphatically so. “You’re gonna take me to the border, so I can extract.”

“We’re gonna let you  _ go  _ to the border,” Francis corrects him. “I’m not turning up in front of all your buddies with a fucking target on my back.”

“We’re not after you.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? Who’s gonna make a fuss if you decide to take us out? Certainly not Al Kramer.”

“What’s General Kramer got to do with this?”

Tom and Francis exchange a glance, telling each other all they need to know.

“He asked us - nicely - if we wouldn’t mind paying Frye and Darrow a little visit. Because we could get close without looking suspicious, and that’s where they thought their missing operative might be.”

“You’re shitting me?” It distracts him from his food for a moment.

“We didn’t know it was you,” Tom clarifies. “Otherwise we would’ve left you there.”

Anderson smirks at the insult. “You’d let  _ this _ just slip out of your hands?”

“Truth is, I’m tempted to throw you back in.”

“You do that,” his mouth smiles, but his eyes don’t, “and I  _ will _ come after you.”


End file.
